


Breakfast at the Silver Swallow

by orphan_account



Series: Worldweavers One-shots and Snippets [1]
Category: Multi-Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Worldweavers - Multiverse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Coffee Shops, Developing Friendships, Dinner Parties, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Literary References & Allusions, Modern Era, Post-Canon, This was meant to be a one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Claire James spends her Saturday mornings in a particular café in Covent Garden, where she meets an elderly university professor by the name of Nicholas Decaux, and another fated and unexpected friendship begins...
Relationships: Claire James (OFC) & Dooku (Star Wars) & Ereinion Gil-galad
Series: Worldweavers One-shots and Snippets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002375
Comments: 47
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Learning to Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/709912) by Verhalen. 



> Happy birthday. It isn't what I'd originally planned to write for your gift fic, but, well, when do these characters ever do as they're asked? I hope you like it.

_**March 2014** _

_**Covent Garden** _

_**London** _

The thing Claire liked best about the Silver Swallow – apart from the books – was their choice of music. Over the clunk and thud of the portafilter and the hiss of steamed milk drifted film soundtracks with soaring violins, minimalist piano études, lazy spools of improvised jazz, hypnotic classical electronica, and rich Romantic symphonies. Whichever book she decided to lose herself in on a given Saturday, the music would settle around her like a stole draped over her shoulders, companionable and soothing and soft.

She always arrived at eight, in time for an indulgent breakfast of crumpets and honey and cream. Now that Gil was training again, the only day he could stay in bed was Sunday – and Claire had always been a morning person. Even when she wasn't taking a shift at the gift shop, she'd get up with him and make coffee; they'd walk partway to the Opera House together, hug, and say goodbye for the day.

“May the Force be with you,” she always told him – a little self-consciously, but it was what they'd settled on. After all, one couldn't say 'good luck' to a performer, and 'break a leg' felt horribly like tempting fate, after the months of misery he'd endured on the sidelines.

“Have fun storming the castle,” he'd return, grinning.

Then she'd head down the cobbled alleyway, past the old-fashioned sweet shop that scooped jelly beans and bon bons from gleaming glass jars and sold them by weight in paper bags, past the boutique full of expensive t-shirts in impossibly tiny sizes, past the vinyl record shop that never seemed to open. The Silver Swallow was unremarkable, red-bricked and black-fronted, wedged between a vintage jewellery store and a glossy, bright establishment that sold lava lamps and inflatable chairs. A couple of folding stools and tables perched precariously on the cobbles outside – though even in the sharp white sunlight of early spring, it was really too cold to sit _al fresco._ Inside, though, heat poured from cast iron radiators, the smell of warm metal mingling with coffee and baking and old yellowed paper. Mismatched furniture snuggled into corners. Leather and clothbound hardback books were stacked on every table – novels, non-fiction, volumes of poetry. The selection changed every day. More were slotted onto shelves around the café, and customers were encouraged to wander around and browse, as long as they put the books back where they found them. Claire, though, was content to see what was on her favourite table each Saturday morning, and spend a delightful few hours walking another's world.

On this particular Saturday, though, her table was occupied.

 _It isn't yours,_ she reminded herself, and settled at one nearby. Even so, as she sipped strong tea and savoured her crumpets, she stole glances at the elderly gentleman sitting in her usual chair. He was straight-backed and handsome, in an elegant, severe sort of way, with a trim silver beard and an aristocratic arched nose. His clothes were dark and simple but obviously expensive, and instead of reading or tapping away on a laptop, he was marking a pile of essays. A professor, then – or a sixth form tutor, but she rather thought the former. He _looked_ like he belonged in higher education. Every so often he would tut and roll his eyes and circle something that apparently offended him. When he did this, Claire hid a smile behind her cup of tea, reminded irresistibly of her grandfather, Joshua, who had looked just the same way whenever he realised he'd made a mistake in his crossword puzzle.

Even so, she thought, she wouldn't want to be on this man's bad side. There was steel behind those eyes.

The next time she had a free Saturday she arrived a little before her usual time, and managed to claim her preferred corner five minutes before the elderly stranger's arrival. She met his eyes as he glanced in her direction; he nodded pleasantly (though she didn't miss the slight flicker of disappointment), then sat down in a plastered alcove and took out a copy of _The Master and Margarita_ from a vintage leather briefcase. She felt a twinge of guilt – not only at having taken _his_ favourite table, but at his choice of novel. It was a book that had been on her to-read list since she was an undergraduate, and somehow she'd never quite got round to it.

The Saturday after that, she got to the Swallow at five past eight, and was pleased to see the same gentleman tucked away at the corner table they both seemed to like. He was marking essays again – but he looked up as she walked in, smiled, and lowered his head in acknowledgement.

She stole glances at him as she ate. When she was halfway through her crumpets, he put away his pile of papers and pulled a well-thumbed paperback copy of Sappho's verse from his briefcase. Claire smiled, inexplicably pleased. She'd studied a little Classical poetry as part of her literature degree, though only in translation, and Sappho had been a favourite. The words themselves were beautiful, but there was something about the gaps and fragments, the spaces _between_ the words – beauty in the brokenness.

He saw her looking, and smiled again.

Claire smiled back. “You finished Bulgakov, then?”

The gentleman closed his book. “You admire him?” He was well-spoken, his voice as deep and refined as a vibrato note on a double bass.

Claire's smile widened. “I've never read him,” she admitted. “My knowledge of Russian literature starts and ends with Tolstoy.”

“There's nothing the matter with Tolstoy; he was a fascinating man and a wonderful storyteller.”

“I remember reading _War and Peace_ one winter when I was an undergraduate. The heating was on the blink; I spent days on the sofa huddled under a pile of blankets, wearing three pairs of socks and fingerless gloves.” The hairs on her arms lifted at the memory as though that dank, grey chill had crept into the café. “I devoured it.” She nodded at the volume of poetry he held. “Sappho's beautiful, too.”

The gentleman ran a careful finger over the spine of his book, a soft light in his eyes. “She certainly is.”

The following week Claire got to the Silver Swallow at quarter to eight. Her professor had already arrived. This time, though, he'd left their table free for her to claim. She put down her bag, looked at him frowning over his stack of essays, and made up her mind. “Would you like to join me?”

He glanced up, clearly surprised. “Are you quite certain?”

She pressed her lips together, tucking her amused smile away. “Completely.” She sat down, and shifted today's selection of books – Forster, Stanislavski, Renault, Saint-Exupéry, Churchill – to clear a space on the table. “There's plenty of room.”

“Well.” His eyes crinkled, and his smile was as bright as the stars. “Thank you.”

“I'm Claire James.” She held her hand out as he put down his papers.

He returned grip and shook her hand once – firmly, and yet it was comforting rather than commanding. “Nicholas Decaux. A pleasure to make your acquaintance...” He glanced down; after a moment Claire realised he was searching for a ring. “Miss James?”

“Claire's fine.”

“Very well, then; you must call me Nicholas.”

She smothered a giggle at the formality of it all, selected _The Last of the Wine_ from the pile of books in front of her, and let Nicholas get on with his marking. They both ordered tea; Claire settled on her usual Saturday treat, and Nicholas chose hot buttered toast with home-made apricot jam, though he was fastidious about keeping the food well clear of his students' papers. From the occasional glimpses she caught of the essay headers, Claire gathered he was a Classics lecturer – a mixture of Latin, Greek, and Ancient History, from the looks of things. When he tucked the essays into a stamped university folder, though, she let out a soft “Oh!” of delight.

Nicholas looked up. “Is something the matter?”

“No, not at all.” She gestured at the inked dome and spire logo on the front of the folder. “But I did my degree at UCL – years ago, now.”

“I see.” He straightened the edges of his pile of papers, looking pleased and curious. “Not, I assume, in Classics; if that were the case I'd recognise you.”

“English Literature.”

“Indeed.” Again the radiant smile. “I might have guessed that. Your choice of reading material is telling.”

“You've been watching me?” she laughed.

“One notices this and that.” He hesitated, then opened his leather briefcase and drew out the copy of _The Master and Margarita_ that he'd been reading the other week. “As a matter of fact, I took the liberty of bringing this with me, in case you would like to borrow it.”

“Oh!” For a moment Claire didn't know what to say; it was a gesture of startling familiarity, considering they'd barely exchanged a dozen sentences – and yet it felt _right_ , natural, perfectly easy. “Thank you.”

“You needn't take it if you don't want to.” Under his beard, Nicholas was blushing. “But I think you'd enjoy it.”

Claire turned it over in her hands. The dust jacket bore a line drawing of a squat black cat with a forked tongue like a snake. The page edges were a deep, faded orange, and flecked with age. She looked up at him, and asked mischievously, “You think I'll like it because you've seen what I read?”

“I observe people almost without thinking; it's a long-held habit of mine.”

“Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out.”

A wry chuckle. “As it happens, I almost pursued a career in law.”

“Really?”

“It's hard to believe now, I know.”

“No – no, it isn't that.” Claire took a breath, shivering at the memory of soul-draining days and sleepless nights and great sweeps of adrenaline followed by exhausting crashes. “I trained as a barrister.”

“I see.” The rich bass voice was gentle. “But that isn't what you do now, is it?”

“No. Now I work in the archive at the Royal Opera House, and sometimes help in the gift shop.” She breathed in again, turning her lips upwards. “My flatmate's a dancer there.”

“With the Royal Ballet?”

“Mm.” Pride in Gil's swift progress glowed warmly against the remembered stress of the court years. “He's dancing in _The Rite of Spring_ this May.”

“A marvellous work.”

“Oh, you're a _balletomane_?” Her smile grew natural and easy again. She instinctively liked Nicholas – more than that, she realised with a touch of surprise. Once again she had the strange sense, comforting yet unsettling, of being meant to meet someone, much as she had with Gil – and with Sören, though that was a long time ago now. Once again she felt the familiar dart of pain under her ribs.

“I wouldn't put it quite that way. But I have always loved ballet – indeed, art in all its forms.”

There was a sincerity to his words that touched her like a finger to the heart. “You should come and see the show.”

Nicholas's eyebrows lifted. Surprise flickered on his face for a moment, and then his features settled and opened into a slow, deep smile. “Perhaps I shall.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this isn't a one-shot any more.

Saturday mornings at the Swallow with Nicholas soon became a routine. They would order tea, crumpets and toast, as well as a bowl of berries and melon to share. Claire soon discovered that Nicholas lived next door to the Donmar Warehouse, only a few minutes' walk from their flat on St Giles High Street, and promptly invited him for dinner.

“You're quite certain?” he asked several times before accepting.

“ _Yes,_ Nicholas.”

“It's only that, as you know, I am significantly older than either you or your flatmate; he may not be entirely comfortable...”

“Gil isn't like that. He wants to meet you; I've told him all about you.”

“Oh!” Nicholas turned pink and looked pleased. “Well, if you're sure?”

“I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't.”

They settled on a Sunday – a damp, miserable night in April when Gil had the day off to help clean the flat. It wasn't cold, but the angry grey sky and the threads of rain shimmering in the air inspired Claire to cook beef bourguignon.

“I must be mad,” she sighed, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. The strains of Roxy Music drifted through from the living room, and the sharp, fresh smell of cleaning products mingled with the rich, herby aroma of the stew. “He _isn't_ French, but from the sounds of his name he has French family. He could probably make better beef bourguignon in his sleep.”

“I doubt that.” Gil dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. “Your cooking is pretty amazing, you know.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“It isn't flattery if it's true.”

Nicholas was punctual to the minute, which didn't surprise Claire at all, and he brought with him a bottle of red Burgundy that would perfectly match the food.

“We must have been _en rapport_ ,” she grinned. “Nicholas, thank you; I told you not to bring anything!”

“I refuse to come empty-handed when I'm spending the evening as a guest in your home.” He kissed her cheek; his beard was damp from the rain. “It's very kind of you to invite me, my dear. Thank _you._ ”

“You're more than welcome.” She took his trilby and his coat – a belted trench, much like the ones she and Gil had. _We'd look like gangsters if we all wore them out together._ The thought made her smile. She hung the sodden garment carefully in the airing cupboard, then tucked her arm through his and showed him through to the living room. “Nicholas, this is my flatmate, Gil.”

Nicholas nodded, and they shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise.” Gil grinned. “Claire's told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, of course,” Claire added, smiling.

Nicholas lifted his eyebrows. “So I should hope.”

She disappeared for a few moments to check on the beef; when she came back, the two of them were enthusiastically discussing famous recordings of the great classical ballet scores.

“I have the 1991 Scottish National Orchestra _Spartacus_ on vinyl,” Nicholas told Gil. 

“The one conducted by Neeme Järvi?” 

“Yes. A truly beautiful record; one can almost _hear_ the Henry Wood Hall. Those acoustics were quite extraordinary.” Nicholas's eyes darkened sadly. “A pity it had to be sold.”

Gil looked up at Claire, almost glowing. “This guy knows more about ballet than I do.”

“I'm quite certain that isn't true.” Nicholas sipped the cynar and soda that Gil had made him. “I simply admire from a distance, whilst you live it every single day. You have to let it into your very soul.”

Startled, Gil simply replied, “Yes.” 

Dinner was a resounding success. Nicholas complimented Claire on the food until she blushed; Gil played the perfect host, keeping everyone supplied with drinks and entertaining them with anecdotes from rehearsal; lightning flared in the glowering sky, and Claire opened the windows to the early spring storm. 

“I love that smell.” She tipped her head back, breathing in the scent of the world after rain. “Even in London.”

“I quite agree,” Nicholas smiled. They had settled on the sofas with glasses of whisky, and Gil had changed the music to Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake._ “There's something very hopeful about it.”

“Mm. Hopeful and soothing.” Claire stretched out languidly. “I ate far too much. Next time, remind me not to over-cater.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Next time the two of you must come to me. After all, it's only around the corner.”

“That sounds great!” Gil sat up, a light in his eyes. “You can show me the vinyl collection – if you don't mind, of course.”

“I should be delighted.”

After Nicholas left, Gil made mint tea for himself and Claire, and they curled up together on one sofa as thunder rolled across the city.

“I like your old gentleman,” Gil told her, one arm draped across her waist. “We should have him over more often.”

Claire smiled sleepily. “He _is_ nice. And I thought you'd get on; you have a lot in common.” Almost idly, she mused, “I wonder if he was ever married? He doesn't wear a ring, but he checked my hand for one when we met.”

She felt Gil laughing softly. “I doubt he's been married.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He's gay.”

Claire sat up. “How can you tell?”

“I just can. My gaydar's pretty reliable.” He hesitated. “In fact, I'd go further and say I think he's closeted.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip; the idea of Nicholas walking through his life, unable to admit his feelings or truly be himself, was unspeakably sad.

“It's not unusual for queer guys of that generation. They still remember when it was illegal – and even when it was decriminalised, it wasn't easy to be out.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It still isn't, really. Not always.”

“Gil...” It was so rare to hear that bitter note in his voice. 

“It's OK.” He shrugged. “I'm luckier than most. At least in the arts world I'm not an outlier.”

She leaned against him and held him close, and they lay together on the sofa, listening to the traffic and the fall of the rain.


	3. Chapter 3

When they returned from the Opera House the next evening they found a handwritten letter on their doormat, addressed to them both in a neat, looped script.

“Nicholas,” Claire grinned, slicing the envelope open.

“What does he say?”

The paper inside was thick and stiff and obviously expensive. Strangely charmed that Nicholas had taken the time to write and deliver a letter by hand, Claire read it aloud while Gil poured them each a glass of iced water.

“ _Dear Claire and Gil,_

_Many thanks once again for your company and hospitality yesterday; I had a truly delightful evening, and I would be honoured if you would allow me to repay you in kind. Shall we say dinner at my flat at seven o'clock this Friday? I enclose the address and telephone number – please do let me know if another time would be more convenient._

_Yours cordially,_

_Nicholas._ ”

Gil shook his head, smiling. “Wow. I didn't know people still wrote letters like that.”

“I didn't know people still wrote letters, full stop – although if anyone was going to, it would be Nicholas.” Claire folded the paper back into the envelope. “Will you be back from rehearsal by then?”

“On a Friday? Easily.”

She telephoned to accept, and on the Friday evening they walked the short distance to Nottingham Court. The air was still, and London seemed to wear a smile as spring breathed light and warmth over its busy roads and reaching tower blocks and Victorian alleys. They passed more than one smartly dressed group who were clearly on their way to the Opera House for the evening performance; Claire slipped her arm through Gil's and squeezed gently.

“Not long now until it's your turn,” she smiled.

“I know.” His eyes sparkled, though there was a tremor in his voice when he spoke again. “God, I can't wait...you'll be there, won't you?”

“Night one? I wouldn't miss it.” She didn't tell him she'd actually bought a pair of tickets – one for her and one for Nicholas. She hadn't yet checked if their new friend could go.

Nicholas lived at the top of a modern, light-coloured, brick building on a busy if airy street lined with budding cherry trees. Gil was feeling lazy after a long day of rehearsals, so they took the lift up, and emerged into a bright lobby opposite a glossy red door. A clean, stiff-bristled mat slotted neatly against its frame, and under the peep-hole was a wooden sign reading _“MEA NAVIS VOLITANS ANGUILLIS ABUNDAT.”_ Claire giggled as she knocked.

“What does that mean?” asked Gil, tilting his head.

“If I remember my Latin, it roughly translates to 'My hovercraft is full of eels.'”

When Nicholas answered the door, Claire and Gil were both laughing so hard they had to lean on each other to stay upright.

“Great sign,” Claire told him when she could catch her breath.

His bemused expression cleared. “Ah. I'm pleased that you find it amusing.” 

“Very much so.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Hi. Thank you for having us.”

“We didn't know what we were eating, so we hedged our bets.” Gil presented Nicholas with two bottles of wine – one white and one red. 

“You're very kind,” Nicholas smiled. “I've roasted a chicken, so either will work.” He stepped to one side and gestured towards his hallway. Behind him, the light of a milk-glass wall lamp gleamed against floorboards the colour of coffee and smoke. A staircase lined with a hessian runner stretched up to a half-landing, above which hung a print of Rossetti's _Joan of Arc_ , and then curved away out of sight. “Please – come in.”

Claire let out a gasp of delight as she followed him under a wooden archway and into an open plan living, dining and kitchen area. Squashy couches and armchairs in silver-grey and snowy cream played starkly against the polished floorboards. Knitted throws, plump cushions and thick, fluffy rugs in blues and sea-greens brightened the neutral colour scheme; a grandfather clock ticked ponderously beside a lit, crackling stove; ferns and potted palms perched on top of dressers and cabinets. Shelves full of books lined every wall, even in the kitchen, and a neat glass dining table – startlingly small, Claire thought, for the size of the space – stood in an alcove by a white-framed sash window. 

“This is gorgeous!” She turned slowly on the spot, admiring the array of beautiful leather bound volumes and vintage Penguin paperbacks. “My God, who needs the library? Oh – that reminds me.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the copy of _The Master and Margarita_ that Nicholas had lent her. “Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

“You're most welcome.” Nicholas slotted it onto a nearby shelf. “Please do borrow any of the others that you'd like to.”

Claire's cheeks turned pink, wishing she hadn't mentioned lending libraries. “I didn't mean – I wasn't hinting...”

Nicholas's eyes twinkled. “I wouldn't mind in the slightest if you were. It's a pleasure to share my collection with a fellow bibliophile.”

Was there wistfulness under there? She caught Gil's eye, thinking about what they'd spoken of last Saturday when Nicholas had left.

“ _Prrrrrrrp?_ ”

“Oh, hello!” Gil grinned and dropped into a crouch, holding out his hand to a little black cat with orange eyes, white socks and tuxedo markings. “Who's this?”

“His name is Tobias.” Nicholas gave a fond smile. “He's doing you quite the honour; at this time of day, his preferred activity is sleep.”

“Hi, sweetie.” Claire held out her hand for a sniff, then scratched Tobias behind his left ear. It was slightly notched, she noticed, as though something had taken a bite out of it. The fur around his whiskers was silvering, though he was still satin-soft to the touch, and there was a deep diagonal scar across his nose. From the looks of him, and from what she knew about Nicholas, she guessed he was a rescue. “Aren't you a gorgeous boy? Yes, you are, you're beautiful...”

Tobias purred and rubbed against her hand as though in agreement.

“He's a little rapscallion.” But Nicholas's deep voice was full of affection and amusement. “Eleven years old, and yet I still find him curled up on the highest bookshelves, or on top of the bathroom cabinet, or inside cupboards I'm certain I closed.”

“That's cats for you,” grinned Gil, rubbing his finger under Tobias's chin. “Do you make life hard for this guy?” he cooed. “Do you drive him crazy? Yes, I just bet you do...good for you, you keep that up...”

“He needs no encouragement, thank you, young man.” 

Claire giggled; Gil widened his blue eyes and blinked innocently.

“Well.” Nicholas glanced between them, still smiling. “It's a warm evening – there was no real need to light the stove, except that I enjoy the effect – I thought perhaps we might have a drink in the garden before dinner?”

“You have a garden?” Claire asked, incredulous and delighted.

“Yes – on the roof terrace. It was my reason for choosing this flat over any of the others I might have bought in the area.” His smile grew proud. “I grow roses, you see. When I moved from Oxford I intended to downsize, but I was determined to find somewhere with an outside space.”

“Did you teach at Oxford?” Claire asked as they followed him up the stairs. Tobias wove around their ankles, and Claire laid a hand on Gil's arm as he froze.

“Yes. I was at Merton College for almost twenty years...” Nicholas reached the top of the stairs and turned around. “Is something the matter?”

“Ah.” Gil gave an embarrassed laugh. “Not exactly. I just...I don't want to trip over the cat.”

Understanding dawned on Nicholas's face; he clicked his tongue, and Tobias trotted up the stairs and sat at his master's feet. 

“ _Prrr-row?_ ”

“He's such a little chatterbox,” Claire smiled.

“He likes to make himself heard,” agreed Nicholas.

She bent down to pet him again as they reached the top of the stairs. A white-walled corridor stretched away to their left; in front of them, Nicholas unlocked a frosted glass door, and the warm, thick air of London in springtime curled into the house, laced with the scent of roses and sage and freshly watered soil.

The terrace was tiled in a warm slate-grey. Potted roses and beds of herbs were placed in thoughtful clusters, neatly dividing the space. White and red blooms like raspberry ripple ice cream peeped up at them from glazed grey urns; a yellow climbing rose nodded from a trellis above a wrought iron bench; tightly curled pink blossoms nestled shyly between olive and bay trees with elegant, pointed leaves. A pretty mosaic table had been set with glasses, tonic and soda water, and a selection of aperitifs. Three chairs – wrought iron, like the bench – were draped in thick woollen blankets and piled with bright cushions. Rachmaninoff whispered from a portable stereo; the traffic below sputtered and growled, and the sunset hazed dusky peach over the London skyline.

“Oh, how lovely.” Claire wandered to the end of the terrace, where fairy lights were wound around intricate black railings. “We're lucky just having a balcony, but _this_...”

“I'm very fortunate, yes – Tobias, get down,” Nicholas added sternly as the little cat hopped onto the table and started sniffing curiously at a bottle of expensive-looking gin.

“Allow me.” Gil scooped Tobias off the table, lightly tapped one finger against the scarred pink nose, then ruffled his fur and set him down on the floor.

“Thank you.” Nicholas hesitated before asking, “Forgive me, but are you quite alright?”

“Yes.” Gil's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “I'm only just back from a nasty injury, that's all. I didn't want to risk a repeat.”

Claire crossed the terrace and put her arms around his waist; he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“I knew you'd been injured,” Nicholas nodded. “I thought perhaps that might be it. My apologies for my ill-mannered cat.”

“He's alright.” Gil settled himself in a chair, and Tobias immediately leapt into his lap and began to purr. “He's not to know. And it's not like I got hurt from falling over a cat.” His cheeks turned pink; Claire knew it still stung that he could have prevented his accident with a little more care, and that he'd made things worse for himself by rushing back early. “I guess I'm just paranoid.”

“That's understandable.” Nicholas rested a hand on Gil's shoulder for a moment. “I'm very glad you've recovered.”

Gil smiled – playfully enough, but there was a forlorn shadow hiding beneath it. “We'll see how it goes in a couple of weeks.”

They sat on the terrace sipping drinks as the light faded from peach to pomegranate red, then as the air cooled and the sky deepened towards violet, they put away the cushions and bottles and retreated into the warmth of Nicholas's beautiful, open-plan living area. Gil rebuilt the fire in the stove as Claire entertained Tobias and Nicholas carved the chicken; they laughed and chattered through dinner, and afterwards they gathered around the fire to finish their wine and savour the delightful, carefree laziness of a Friday night. Nicholas talked Gil through his vinyl collection, and Claire amused herself with a volume of Auden as her flatmate exclaimed over the rare recordings, the perfect condition of the sleeve notes, and the record player itself. It all felt so wonderfully easy, she reflected as she curled into the velvet armchair. It was almost like a kind of homecoming – a sense of safety, of acceptance and knowledge and love, even though their friendship with Nicholas was nearly as new as the peeping rosebuds up on the roof terrace.

She managed to catch Nicholas on his own as they were preparing to leave. Gil had run upstairs to use the bathroom, so she took the opportunity to ask about the first night of _The Rite of Spring._

“I'd be honoured to go with you.” Nicholas's mouth curved. “As a matter of fact I looked for tickets online not long after we first spoke about it, but the whole run is sold out. Well done for securing a pair.”

“Perks of working at the Opera House,” Claire grinned. “And thank you. Gil's a pretty calm person, and he does a great impression of being all cool and nonchalant, but...well. He hasn't danced for an audience in over a year. He's nervous.”

“It's only to be expected. Don't worry; I'll be there.”

On impulse Claire threw her arms around him. Nicholas stiffened, but after a moment's hesitation he returned the embrace, and gave her a fatherly pat on the head.


	4. Chapter 4

Perhaps it was the wine, but Claire's dreams were strange that night. She saw a man spurring his horse across a wasteland of cinder and ice. His blue cloak – tattered, filthy – streamed behind him, and long black hair whipped around his face. Sparks flew from his horse's hooves – and then somehow the sparks caught, flared, spread. Like a great oil canvas, the scene curled in at the edges and went up in flames...

The screaming woke her. Half-asleep, she thought they came from the man in her dream – she remembered another nightmare, a wounded man at the mercy of a white-haired fiend, stars on a silver shield...Canterbury... _Gil._

She crossed the landing and knocked on his door. “Gil? Gil, can I come in?”

Another scream. She pushed the door open, glad that neither of them had ever felt the need to use their locks, and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Gil...”

Her friend was rigid on the bed, curled into a foetal position, his arms over his face. She started to cross the room, but froze as he let out another wordless cry. Wary of half-waking him and making the nightmare worse, she turned on the bedside lamp, sat on the end of the bed and spoke his name softly. “Gil. Wake up. It isn't real. Whatever you're seeing, it's a dream. It's just a bad dream, Gil. It's OK. You're safe.”

Slowly, gradually, his muscles unclenched; his sharp, rapid breathing eased, and he drew his arms down from his face, blinking.

“Gil? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

She exhaled with relief. “Same dream?”

“Yeah.” He uncoiled and rubbed his temples. 

“Do you still feel it?”

“No. I _remember_ feeling it. It's like...” He breathed in. “Like a ghost pain. If that makes any sense.”

“It does, I think.” She knew it was useless to ask if he remembered what had happened in the dream. “What do you need?”

“Company?” He looked guilty for even asking. “Unless you need to go straight back to sleep.”

Claire tilted her head. “Are the two mutually exclusive?”

“Not necessarily,” Gil grinned, lifting the duvet so she could climb in beside him. “Thanks, Claire.”

“Any time.”

He fluffed a couple of extra pillows and passed them across. “Hit the light?”

She obliged; the room dipped back into darkness; she felt Gil's arms around her, and relaxed into the easy, lazy comfort of his embrace.

“What do you think Nicholas would say if he could see us like this?” he asked.

“Probably nothing.” Claire curled against his side and rested her cheek on his chest. It was cool and clammy from the nightmare, but she said nothing. “He doesn't strike me as the judgemental type. And anyway, it's not as though we're having an orgy.”

Gil chuckled. “Would you, though?”

“Would I what?”

“Have an orgy.”

She laughed. Somehow, the taut, frightening atmosphere of their nightmares had given way to the cosy, mischievous mood of a school sleepover party. “I can't say I've ever really thought about it. Maybe. It depends who with.” She sat up and gave him a stern glare, even though he wouldn't be able to see properly in the dark. “Why? What were you planning to get up to this weekend?”

“I don't know what you're insinuating. I have a busy weekend of rehearsals ahead of me, thank you.”

Abruptly the giggles stopped. “Do you think that's why the nightmares have started again? You're worried about your dancing?”

“Maybe.” He squeezed her shoulders as she lay back down. “You're such a lawyer, you know that? Straight for the jugular.”

“Years of training and practice don't evaporate overnight.” 

“Apparently not.”

In the dark she felt for his hand, found it, and linked their fingers. “It'll be alright, Gil. They wouldn't cast you if you weren't ready.” When he didn't reply, she added, “I'll be right there on opening night. And so will Nicholas.”

“Nicholas is coming?” 

“He's wanted to see you dance since I told him what your job is.” Suddenly anxious, she sat up a little. In the distance a siren howled; blue lights flickered outside the curtains, sending speckles of light whirling across the wall. “You don't mind, do you?”

“No. It's...I'm touched.” The last traces of tension ebbed from his body. The sounds of the ambulance faded, and darkness settled around them again, soothing and soft. “I really enjoyed this evening.”

“Me too.” 

“It felt...I don't know. You hear about those nice family dinners, long evenings where you all sit around catching up, and it's not something I've ever had before. I'm not saying it's exactly like that,” he added quickly. “I know you have family of your own, and we only just met Nicholas, but...”

“I get it. It's like when we went to Canterbury.” His silky hair tickled her cheek as she leaned against him. “It just makes sense.”

“Yeah.” She heard a wistful, sleepy smile in his voice. “Yeah, it does.”


	5. Chapter 5

As opening night approached, Gil drew quietly into himself. To a casual observer, Claire knew it wouldn't look like nerves – he ate normally; he was pleasant enough in company; when he did talk about dancing, he was composed, focused and utterly professional. Claire, though, was not a casual observer. She saw the taut neutrality in his face as he worked at the _barre_ in his room, and she found herself sleeping lightly, listening for screams in the night.

Nothing came.

“You're very quiet, my dear,” Nicholas said to her on the morning of the first performance.

They were sitting at their usual table in the Silver Swallow. The windows were flung open and the late spring air curled inside, gently warmed by the sun. Claire was stirring her tea, a copy of _Lud-in-the-Mist_ open but unread in one hand.

“Am I?” She smiled, a little absently. “You know, I think _I'm_ nervous too.”

Nicholas nodded and offered her the bowl of berries.

“I haven't even seen Gil today.” She nibbled on a strawberry. “He left early – and he said he wouldn't come home before the show.”

The thick, steel-grey brows knitted together. “When is he going to eat?”

“Apparently he doesn't do dinner before a performance. None of them do. They have something light in the afternoon, and then dinner after the show – to refuel, I suppose.”

Nicholas pursed his lips as though this unorthodox routine was a personal insult.

“It makes sense.” Claire blew on her tea and grinned. “Imagine having to throw and catch your partner if they've just eaten three helpings of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“Hmm.” He drummed his fingers, still frowning – then his expression softened. “Well, at least you're smiling again.”

Evidently determined to keep her happy and distracted, he suggested a trip to the Rookery in Streatham. The Tube ride was sticky and close and breathless, even once the shoppers and sightseers had been disgorged into the city centre – but out on the Common the breeze was fresh and sweet. As they wandered the gardens and woodland, soft May light dappled their skin, and the heady promise of summer laced the air.

They paused by the wishing well. Claire, although not really superstitious, flipped a five pence piece and let it clatter against the metal grid, then into the stony darkness below.

"Did you wish for good luck for Gil this evening?" Nicholas asked, smiling fondly.

She slipped her arm through his. "If I tell you, it won't come true." She paused, then added wickedly, "As you know."

Nicholas's eyebrows lifted. "I shan't dignify that with a reaction." But his eyes were twinkling, and he squeezed her shoulders as they walked on. “What are your plans for dinner, my dear?”

“I don't have any, as yet.”

“Then would you mind terribly if I were to impose upon you for an hour or two this afternoon?”

“Not at all.” She pressed her cheek against the top of his arm. “You're always welcome. In fact, we should probably think about getting you a key...”

*

When Claire stepped out of the shower, it was to the scent of baking bread and the sound of Nicholas's rich _basso profondo_ singing along to Bizet on the radio.

_“Toréador, en garde!  
Toréador! Toréador!”_

Claire almost called out “Wrong show!” down the stairs, but thought better of it. It was rare to see – or hear – Nicholas so utterly relaxed. Instead she wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped on her dressing gown and a pair of flip-flops, and went downstairs to investigate the source of the delicious smells.

"Good grief," she laughed as she entered the kitchen. Nicholas had a tea towel slung over his shoulder, and had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows; chopping boards and mixing bowls were stacked by the sink, and the windows were flung wide open, letting in the buzz of traffic and shoppers from outside. "It's like an episode of MasterChef in here."

"Nothing so advanced, I'm afraid – in fact it's really all quite simple." Nicholas tapped his wooden spoon on the side of the pan and set it carefully down to rest, then looked her up and down and folded his arms. "I assume you aren't going to the Opera House like that?"

"I shan't dignify that with a reaction," she teased.

Nicholas chuckled fondly.

“Actually I came down to tell you that the bathroom's free whenever you'd like it.” Claire glanced around. “Is there anything I can do to help in here?”

“It's almost finished. I'll tidy the dishes away, and -”

“I can do that!” Claire protested.

“Certainly not. I have made a mess in your kitchen and I shall be the one to clean it up.”

Claire knew better than to argue. She retreated to her room to get dressed, and to arrange her hair and makeup. When she'd moved out of her flat in Holborn, knowing she would never go back to her corporate career, she'd donated most of her suits and formal attire to charity shops – but Gil had intervened and insisted she keep at least a few nice things.

“You never know when you might need them,” he'd admonished, holding a long navy blue slip dress against his front. “And this is _gorgeous._ ”

She ran her fingers over the same dress now, considering – but it felt too wintry, despite its lightweight, soft material and its whisper-thin straps. Instead she reached for a floor-length wrap dress, cut from silk the deep green of summer grass, with a tasselled belt cinching it in at the waist. She added silver sandals and one of Gil's engraved bangles. Carefully she pinned her hair into a simple chignon (smiling at the sound of Nicholas singing as he got ready), then, after some thought, she dabbed her lips and cheeks with berry-pink stain, and lined her lashes with kohl.

Nicholas's eyes widened as she came down the stairs – slowly, mindful of her spindly heels.

“You look wonderful, my dear,” he told her with a ring of deep sincerity.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him. “So do you.” Nicholas was exquisitely turned out in black tails and a charcoal silk scarf. A red carnation peeped from his buttonhole, and an antique pocket watch was tucked into his waistcoat.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

They walked the ten minutes along Endell Street to the Royal Opera House, drinking in the evening sun. Butterflies flittered in Claire's stomach as she thought about Gil, getting ready under the hot, bright lamps of the dressing room – though the buzz of her phone in her evening clutch distracted her for a few moments. She grinned at the photograph of Harrison, Luc, Theo and Rosie, lounging on the beach in St Andrews, arms around each other, warm bronzed light gleaming in their hair.

_All our best to Gil for tonight! See you both soon xx_

Feeling a little better, she lifted her head and walked on.

Once they arrived, Nicholas ordered them drinks from the bar – cynar and soda for himself, and a white port and tonic for Claire.

“For the nerves,” he explained.

The thoughtful stillness behind his eyes told Claire that he was worried for Gil too. She felt a rush of affection for him, and she clinked their glasses together. “Cheers.” She sipped, and forced the tension in her shoulders away. “And thank you again for coming. It means a lot to Gil – and to me.”

“You have both become very dear to me in a very short space of time.” He turned a little pink under his beard, as though surprised by his own words.

“The feeling's mutual,” she assured him.

Nicholas smiled then, and they passed a little time admiring the gowns and suits of the other ballet-goers (and, in Nicholas's case, glaring at those who had dared to turn up in jeans) – and then the announcement sounded that there were only ten minutes left until curtains up.

Claire took a deep breath and gulped the rest of her apéritif. “OK, then.”

“He'll be alright, you know.” Gently, Nicholas helped her down off the bar stool, and her mind shot back to the giddy surreality of that Friday night in November, when she had met Gil in the Euston Tap and they had run away to Canterbury for the weekend. “Ballet training isn't purely physical. All of the top schools prepare their students for the psychological demands of their profession – and Gil is...”

“I know. He's Gil. But he _needs_ this to go well; his dancing, it isn't his job, it's...it's oxygen to him.” She paused, biting her lip. “When he was injured, he said it was like someone tore off his wings.”

Nicholas touched the back of her hand, lightly. He understood.

As anxious as she was, though, Claire couldn't help being affected by the opulent splendour of the Royal Opera House's Victorian auditorium. She'd been inside before, of course, but somehow, before a real performance, the old place felt different, full of memory and life. The high, domed ceiling gleamed cream and gold; plush red chairs – over two thousand of them – nestled together in elegant curved rows; the velvet curtains were drawn across the proscenium arch stage, inviting, enticing, like the downward tilt of a coquette's eyelids. _Come and see. Come and see._ Her programme rustled in her lap, its waxy scent rising from the pages; bizarrely, Claire thought of macaroon paper in her grandmother's kitchen, and of Sunday lunches at their old terraced home in Sheffield, when her grandfather had played scratched recordings of Haydn on the ancient gramophone in the dining room...

Their seats were precisely in the middle of the Grand Tier. On her shop assistant's salary, Claire had felt guilty about spending so much money on plum tickets – but if Gil's first performance after his long, wearying absence wasn't worth dipping into her savings for, then she didn't know what was. Besides, she could tell that Nicholas appreciated it. He had offered to pay her back for his ticket, but she had insisted it was her treat; now she smiled as he dusted off the cushion of his seat and settled into its embrace.

He caught her looking, and smiled back. “I have a gift for you, my dear, since you would take nothing from me for the ticket.”

Claire gasped as he reached into his jacket and produced a pair of beautiful, lightweight opera glasses inlaid with mother of pearl, and with gold filigree twisted around the lenses. “Nicholas...”

“They belonged to my grandmother. Personally I prefer not to use them; I would much rather see the whole stage at one time. But I thought that you might like to see Gil's performance up close.”

The sides of her throat stuck together. Before she could properly articulate her thanks, the lights dimmed; the oboe sounded a single, mournful note, and the orchestra began to tune up. Claire leaned back in her seat, lifted the opera glasses to her eyes, and sank into the storied magic of the theatre.

The languorous call of the bassoon threaded the warm, thick air as the curtain rose. The barleycorn twists framed the stage like it was a portal to another world – and, one by one, the dancers drifted in from the wings. At first it was only the ballerinas, clad in flame-bright orange and starlight silver, their faces caked in stark white make-up. Shifting chromatic layers of music swirled around them, blooming, aching, whispering away into nothing, and then the male dancers entered to a series of stamping, dissonant chromatic chords. Claire spotted Gil almost instantly, though the men too wore fire-and-mist lycra, and were covered in chalky white paint; his height, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved, were all unmistakable.

Bodies flexed and leapt and twisted. The stage lights burned fiercely against the skintight costumes, and the liquid strength of the dancers' muscles propelled them through the air. Claire thought of how hard Gil had practised and trained to regain that strength, coaxing his damaged tendons back into condition – and now he seemed a fey creature from a time gone out of memory, bathed in blood under a younger, crueller sun. His limbs formed weird, jagged shapes like scratched Saxon runes, and every time he jumped, for a few heart-stopping moments he hung weightless the air. The power, the danger, the sheer perfection of it went through her like a skewer. His eyes shone with joy and triumph, though she knew there was no thought in his head of his injury now. He was gone, sent, lost in the birth pangs of a waking world.

The music built into a storm of frantic, tumbling chords. Jagged snatches of melody, phrases torn free of a whole, gleamed like broken glass and were flung back into a wild whirl of colour. Every so often dancers and music came together in savage unity, but danger ran beneath – a dark, driving pulse that threatened to erupt into something deadly and dreadful. At times the wall of sound receded, replaced by high, textured chords like the drifting of ash and dust, or the quivering of plucked strings like grass in the breeze, and slowly, the ritual's games unfolded. Gentle, almost teasing steps became a sinister, circular march, with men and women all scrambling not to be caught in the centre. The dancers moved as one, every flick of the wrist and arch of the neck perfectly synchronised with the others around them. The circle tightened, and the music throbbed, beating and rising and finally leading to the isolation and capture of one of the male dancers – not Gil. Claire found herself relieved. She knew the story of the ballet, knew equally well that nothing on stage was real – and yet as the chosen sacrifice flung himself into his wild, final dance, and the music shrieked like the stabbing of knives, fear sliced under her skin and froze her breath in her throat.

The bodies of all the dancers contorted. The orchestra gasped for breath, and after one final, screaming chord, collapsed into silence. The sacrifice dropped to the ground, having danced himself to death.

Applause crackled through the auditorium. Belatedly, Claire realised she should be clapping too; she felt distant from her body, from everything around her. She watched the next dance – _After the Rain_ , a short, contemporary piece for three couples – as though through a backlit scrim. When Nicholas placed a careful hand on her arm at the interval and asked her if she'd like another drink, it took a few moments for the question to sink and settle in her mind.

“No,” she managed to reply. “Thank you. You go, if you like. I'll wait here.”

By the time he returned, she was grounded enough to pay attention to the second half of the programme and enjoy it, especially the intricate, flirtatious _Tarantella_ danced by two of the company's principals, who made the dizzying steps look effortless.

“She's brilliant,” Claire smiled, applauding the _prima ballerina_ as she took her curtain call.

“Tami Idemitsu.” Nicholas lifted his hands as he clapped to show his approval. “She's excellent; I've seen her perform several times. It will be a loss to the dancing world when she retires.”

“How old is she?”

“Forty-five.”

Claire blinked, and looked again through her opera glasses at the petite, elegant woman smiling out at her audience. It didn't seem possible.

Afterwards they waited for Gil in the champagne bar of the Paul Hamlyn Hall. Cold, peach-coloured light spilled down through the iron and glass roof, and the chatter of the departing patrons and the beep of taxi horns dwindled into a hazy buzz. Claire twirled another glass of white port – neat, this time – between her fingertips, letting the uncanny spell of the evening settle inside her like a new wine.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked Nicholas eventually.

He nodded. “Very much so. It was an interesting programme – and to see Gil dance like that was quite astonishing.”

“I know.” Hesitantly, she asked, “Was he good? I mean, I know that's a stupid question, obviously they're all phenomenal or they wouldn't be here...I suppose what I'm asking, since you know far more about ballet than I do, is _how_ good he is.”

Nicholas exhaled. “Exceptionally.”

Tears pricked in Claire's eyes and throat. She swallowed, and said nothing.

At last Gil emerged with a couple of his fellow dancers. He spoke to them with little attention, his eyes already searching the faces dotted around the atrium – and then he spotted Nicholas and Claire, and his features lit.

“So?” he grinned as he approached them.

Claire hugged him hard, caught in a wave of feeling so intense she could hardly breathe. He wrapped his arms around her, and for the first time in months she was acutely aware of the power in his grip, his strength, the taut curves of his muscles. He smelled of shower gel, hair spray, and the cool woody scent of the stage. She looked up, lacking the words to tell him how the dance had affected her, but he cupped her face with one hand and brushed his thumb across the sweep of her cheekbone. He knew.

Nicholas placed a hand on his shoulder. “You were excellent.”

“Thank you.” Gil slung an arm around the older man's waist, including him in the embrace. “Home?”

“Home,” Claire agreed.

Gil said very little as they strolled through London in the last of the sun's weak glow. Claire watched him closely, noting the strange light in his eyes, his distant expression. It was as though, for him, the dance had been real and the present was not.

Nicholas had outdone himself with dinner, carefully planning the meal so that it was light and yet full of all the things Gil would need to replenish his body. There was herbed potato soup, a fresh crab salad, homemade rye bread, and glasses of pink champagne jelly with whipped cream and airy sponge fingers.

“You did all this for me?” Gil asked, disbelieving.

“As I explained to Claire, everything was quite simple to make.” Nicholas uncorked a bottle of chilled, fruity albariño. “And it's a pleasure to have people to cook for.”

They lit the lamps as the evening sky darkened, and slowly the performance relinquished its grip on Gil. After dinner he leaned on Claire's shoulder, halfway to the exhausted sleep of one released from a bone-deep enchantment.

Nicholas's mouth twitched. “I think it's time you were in bed, young man.”

Gil raised his head and pretended to glare. “What are you, my father?”

The salt-and-pepper brows lifted. “I'm not overly fond of that word.”

Claire put down her wine glass, her barrister instincts singing into life. There was something under there, she thought – something old and yet still tender, like a long-healed wound with a sliver of metal hidden under the skin.

Gil felt it too; he straightened, properly awake now, concern in his blue eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said eventually.

“There's no need.” Nicholas sighed, and turned towards the open balcony doors. “Don't mind me. I'm just a tired, foolish old man.”

“Well, you're _our_ tired, foolish old man.”

That raised a smile. Claire relaxed again.

“Hey.” Gil's eyes glinted wickedly. “If we can't call you father, then how about Dad?”

“ _Dad?_ ” Nicholas looked scandalised, amused and touched all at once. “Why, you...”

Gil batted his eyelashes outrageously.

“Oh, very well.” A resigned shake of the head; a fond chuckle. “If you must. But only if you take yourself upstairs this instant to get some rest.”

“If you say so.” Gil paused, and then added with a teasing grin, “Dad.”


End file.
